Lost Boy
by LavenderBleu
Summary: Hisoka's childhood, told from his mother's point of view.


Disclaimer: Not mine. Not a single one of them. ::sob::  
  
Author's Notes: Admittedly, not my strongest piece, but something I really, really had the urge to write, for some reason. Any and all helpful comments would be so very much appreciated.  
  
Spoilers: Volume 11 of the manga.  
  
  
  
All he wanted was an heir. Kurosaki Nagare was determined to uphold the archaic traditions of his stagnated and patriarchal family, whatever the cost. I never saw the sadness my sister hid at her inability to bear him a son. He pressured her endlessly for a child to carry on his line, nearly driving her insane. I suppose the process was completed when at last she bore him twins. Twin girls. The family was told they were still born. I did not learn until later what really happened.  
  
I refused to believe it when they told me that Kasane was dead. They said she drowned in a pond on the grounds. It had only been a year since her marriage. Somehow I was bargained into a new marriage with Nagare-san, in an attempt to keep my sister's death a secret. I was too upset to argue. It was a long time before I learned the reason for the subterfuge; my sister's death was a suicide. Shameful. Unheard of. And, now that I was living her life, perfectly understandable.  
  
My first child was a girl. She was so tiny and perfect, I fell in love with her at once. Before she had lived even a few hours, they took her from me. I followed the maids, not for a moment trusting them with my child. They drowned her in front of me, in the pond where Kasane died. Where Kasane's children had died. Now my Takara was there too. There was no way out for anyone of us now.  
  
I was pregnant again inside a year. The child was male this time, and we all breathed a sigh of relief. Hisoka was like an answer to prayer, at first, but he was born early and very small. I lived in daily fear that he would grow up a weak child and be tossed away, like one throws back a fish that's too small. I struggled to keep him safe for as along as I could. He was four before we knew what he was.  
  
It was unnatural, Nagare said. It frightened me, as well. He pronounced the boy unfit to succeed him, and thus Hisoka became another faceless shadow, kept hidden away like a ghost. Nagare hated the boy, and I could not stand to be near him, because I knew that when he was old enough, he would be sent away. But the child had a strong attachment to me, stronger then was expected since I never saw him. Whenever he was near me, it was as if he could see straight into my head….and my heart. "Why are you so sad, mother?" he'd ask, his earnest little face creased in concentration. I couldn't tell him. It wasn't something for a child to hear. So I kept him away from me as much as possible. By the time he was eight, I think he believe that I hated him. Instead of being angry, he was only hurt and confused, asking troublesome questions whenever he could find me. "Why don't you ever hug Hisoka, mother? You feel like you want to." His ability was unnerving. It is hard to maintain a front with a child who can see all you secrets. He was ten when we shut him away in his room. It didn't last long; he was still a growing boy; children can't play in cages. So I gave in, gave him free run of the house, and locked myself away instead. After a while, he stopped waiting for me to come and play with him.  
  
Perhaps if I'd continued to lock him inside, I might have been able to keep him a while longer. The gardener found him in early morning, sprawled on his stained kimono under the sakura and, knowing better than to wake his father, came to me instead. I still remember the way he looked, the pinkish tinge to his skin, like a mild sunburn. The scene was absurdly peaceful, save for his tightly clenched fists. He didn't wake when my made and I carried him indoors and began to rub aloe on his body. It had been years since I had been this close to my only son. I sent the maid away, instructing her to burn the soiled kimono.  
  
Hisoka had been such a beautiful baby, despite his small size, and he had grown up even more so. He had an almost feminine grace, which only made his father hate him more. Holding back tears, I unthinkingly reached down to brush the hair out of his sweet face. The contact must have woken him, or perhaps he merely sensed my presence. He sat up immediately, wincing in pain and clutching at my hand. Hoarse, hysterical sobbing and wide, panicked eyes assaulted me. He was trying to tell me something, but his voice was too weak. From crying? From screaming? I didn't want to know. I only knew that I had to get away from him quickly, or else I'd never leave. I ran from the room, leaving my son frantically grabbing at my arm, and screaming for the maid to attend to him. I did not leave my room for a week after that, thinking to follow Kasane by drowning myself in my own tears.  
  
He did not recover, but grew progressively worse. There was no reason to be found for his pain. For the next three years, I watched my child die a slow and lingering death, unable to do anything to stop it. I saw only at night, when I sat by his side as he tossed restlessly and cried out at nightmares that I knew nothing of. Sometimes he calmed if I stroked his hand, so I tried to stay each night until he woke. Near the end, he didn't wake at all, but spent all his time trapped in his own mind, screaming and mumbling about sakura and moonlight. I was holding his hand when he died. I whispered, "I love you," in his ear, when I saw his breath was slowing. I'll never know if he heard me. Perhaps it's beat that he did not live long; the insanity of this family didn't have time to touch him. Wherever he is now, I only hope that he is not alone. 


End file.
